


indecent

by arysa13



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Guilt, Incest, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Self-Hatred, Sex Lessons, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: When Daphne asks him for answers regarding what happens between a man and a woman on their wedding night, Anthony knows he should not oblige her. And yet, he does anyway.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Daphne Bridgerton
Comments: 128
Kudos: 315





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please ignore historical inaccuracies 
> 
> thank you to maria and bell for helping me make this fic happen <3

It’s late by the time Anthony finally finishes working on the administrative duties he’s been attending to all night. Checking his father’s pocket watch, he concedes that he will be spending the night here rather than making the trip across the square to his own lodgings.

The door of his study is ajar, and he whips his head up at the movement of a shadow and the creak of a floorboard. 

“Mother?” he calls. It’s Daphne who steps into the room, in her nightgown, her hair loose. She looks soft and delicate. 

Anthony smiles, though there is still guilt that tugs at him for his part in what happened with Berbrooke. No small part, either. He truly did think he was doing what was best. He’s only ever wanted what’s best for her. In any case, she seems to have forgiven him.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” he asks.

Daphne shakes her head, coming further into the room. He gestures for her to take the seat across from him, and she collapses into it, her usual perfect posture forgotten. He likes that she feels she can let her guard down like this around him.

“It seems to be a recurring problem of late,” she sighs. “I cannot seem to stop thinking.”

“I know the feeling,” Anthony agrees. “What is it that’s troubling you this time? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Daphne guffaws, so loudly it makes him start. “I assure you, you cannot.”

He tries not to take offence. He had hoped Daphne might be more open with him after everything that has happened. He thought he made it clear he is determined to do right by her. 

“I am _trying,_ you know,” he says. “I understand better the position you’re in. I want you to feel like you can confide in me, that you can come to me for advice.”

“Believe me, brother, this is not the sort of thing you can assist me with.”

“Of course, there are _some_ things I don’t know,” he concedes. Perhaps it is to do with women’s business—something he should stay well away from.

“It is not a matter of you not knowing,” Daphne says.

“Then you shall ask me, and I shall answer you as best I can,” he says decisively. 

Daphne chews her lip. Something he would never see her do in public. “I think you would not like me knowing such things. Nobody will tell me. Not really.”

Anthony huffs. “Really, sister, we’re going around in circles. Just ask what you need to and let me decide if it is right for me to tell you.”

“It’s the matter of, of—" she flushes, a pretty pink in the candlelight. “The wedding night. What happens between a man and a woman that is so ghastly no one can bear to even look me in the eye when I bring it up?”

It’s Anthony’s turn to blush now, stunned into silence. Perhaps he should have guessed the nature of her question from her unwillingness to just ask it outright. 

“See!” she cries, upon Anthony’s reaction. “You cannot even look at me.”

He clears his throat, and leans forward on the desk. “Perhaps you are right, it is not for me to say. Perhaps mother, or—or—you shall know when the time comes,” he stammers. He hates the nervous, unsure quality to his voice. It is not something he is used to. But then, discussing such a matter with his sister is not something he is used to either.

Daphne scoffs. “When the time comes I will just know?”

“Your husband shall teach you,” he says, face absolutely flaming from the thought of a man teaching his sister any such things, even her husband. Perhaps that is why he had been so reluctant to find her one in the first place.

“Anthony,” Daphne says seriously, sitting up and leaning forward. “Do you not think I have a right to know what I will be getting into?”

He inclines his head, an act of noncommittal agreement. He does not want to doubt her again, to not heed her wishes. It had almost been disastrous last time. She knows her own mind, and he does not want to be the one to stifle her. And he’s very happy that she came to _him_ , that she does trust him enough to ask. He’s just not sure he has the capacity to say the words out loud without perishing from embarrassment. This is his _sister_ for goodness sake. 

“I—" he starts, but he cannot seem to go further. At least not for several long seconds. “It is not ghastly,” he tells her, finally, a dull thudding in his stomach. “Not if it is done right.”

“Simon told me it is a continuation of what happens—when you are alone at night. And you—touch yourself,” she whispers the last two words. 

Anthony’s eyes snap to hers, an image of her with her hand between her legs flashing into his mind. A response from his body he does not wish to acknowledge. He sincerely wishes for the room to catch fire and burn down around them to save him from this conversation.

“I should have Simon’s head for speaking to you of such things,” he growls. 

“He’s the only one who would be even slightly honest with me,” Daphne defends, her eyes sparking. Longing for her to have that same respect and appreciation for him, Anthony relents.

“And you knew what he meant? When he talked about—touching yourself?”

Daphne shakes her head. “He had to explain,” she admits. “I feel so silly and naive.”

“And have you tried it?” Anthony continues, eyes intense on her. He waits with baited breath for her answer, his heart pounding. Surely, she will be too embarrassed to answer. He should not have even posed the question; it is most improper. He doesn’t want to know, and yet he is desperate to know.

“I tried,” Daphne says quietly. “I think I’m doing it wrong. I understand to an extent. Sometimes when I think about Simon, or when he touches me, there’s this _feeling.”_

Something savage stirs in Anthony’s chest. The same feeling he gets whenever a man approaches his sister, when he found out what Berbrooke tried to do to her. Brotherly protectiveness, he calls it. He does not want his sister thinking of his friend in that way, not when the duke has no intention of ever marrying her. He doesn’t want her thinking of _anyone_ in that way, cannot seem to reconcile the girl he has always seen as needing his protection with the young woman sitting here asking him about sex. A lady shouldn’t think about these things, surely? At least, not until marriage.

None of this he says out loud. He is trying to gain his sister’s trust back, not scare her away.

“Just follow that feeling,” he says.

“I tried,” Daphne whines. “Is there some trick to it? What is it leading to?”

Anthony snorts out a laugh at that. “I suppose there is more of a trick to it with women than with men.”

“And do you know this trick?”

He hides his smirk behind his hand. Many women would confirm that he does know the trick. 

“There is—a small bud, between your legs. That is what will bring you the most pleasure. It may take you a little while to find what you like.”

Daphne nods. Anthony swallows as he takes in her dilated pupils and her shallow breathing, and the way her thighs are pressed tightly together beneath her nightgown. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably.

“You can also go inside,” he says, his voice low. “Put your fingers inside your—yourself.” He stops himself just in time, before he says a word a lady should never hear. That they’re even having this conversation is bad enough. But as long as she is touching _herself,_ perhaps she won’t be tempted by the duke. Not that he thinks his friend is roguish enough to actually try anything with his sister. And surely Daphne is smart enough not to act on her feelings.

“And—and what does all this have to do with the wedding night?” Daphne asks. Anthony tries to ignore how affected she sounds. How he has heard and seen the same cues enough in other women to know his sister is turned on. And the worst thing is, so is he, if the tightening in his breeches is anything to go by. 

What is she thinking of? Is she thinking of Simon? The thought of it makes Anthony’s blood boil.

“On the wedding night, dear sister, you do not touch yourself. But your husband will touch you.”

Her face floods with colour, and all of a sudden Anthony’s cock is truly straining against the front of his breeches. What would Daphne think, if she knew? 

He hasn’t told her that part—what her pussy is truly made for. For taking his cock. God, not _his_ cock. Her husband’s, of course. Though the thought of any man defiling her makes him sick. 

“Perhaps you should get to bed,” Anthony suggests, before his mind can conjure up any more accidental lewd thoughts in regards to his sister. 

Daphne nods shortly, rising from the chair. 

“Thank you, brother,” she says. “I truly am grateful. Goodnight.”

Anthony nods, then watches her leave, the latch clicking into place behind her. 

As soon as her footsteps have faded, he’s unbuttoning his breeches, his hand sinking inside to curl around his hard cock. God, he must truly be missing Siena if a _conversation_ with his _sister_ no less, can get him this hard. 

He rubs himself quickly, thinking of faceless naked women. Certainly not Siena, and _certainly_ not Daphne. 

It takes him no time at all before he comes, his final thought as his seed spurts from him is to wonder if Daphne is in her room doing the same.

-

It’s an act of desperation, or perhaps madness, that takes him to see Siena. 

He cannot seem to look at his sister without thinking of their conversation, and consequently wondering if she had followed his instruction. But he also cannot possibly bring himself to _ask_. The matter is concluded. He has sated her curiosity enough that she need not come looking to him for answers again. 

Still, he keeps replaying their conversation in his head, torn between thinking he did the right thing, and wishing he’d shut the matter down before he let it get so far. He does not want the image of his sister lying in her bed at night, fingers in her cunt. And yet it is there, and unshakable, as is the knowledge that as she does this she is thinking of the duke. It seems inevitable that she would, and this only puts Anthony in a sour mood, hot jealousy coursing through his veins. 

Jealousy, he concludes, that must be connected to Siena’s interest in Simon. Must every woman in his life be so charmed by the Duke of Hastings? He does not want to feel this resentment for his friend, but not only is the man fraternising with his sister with no intention of marrying her, but now Anthony’s past lover is trying to seduce him as well. It’s all too much for his usually cool countenance to contend with.

He’s always had everything he wanted. Jealousy is _not_ something he is used to.

Siena, of course, rebukes him. He can hardly be surprised, yet it still stings. The list of eligible women his mother provides him with only adds insult to injury. 

He is alone. No one to warm his bed, or soothe his mind, or stroke his cock. He doesn’t have the stomach for a ball tonight.

He’s still up when his mother and sister arrive home from the ball. He hears them come upstairs, their footsteps in the hallway loud, shuffling towards their respective bedrooms.

He sighs, supposing he should retire himself, at least try to get some sleep, however unlikely it may seem with his current troubled state.

He does not expect to find his sister pacing quietly outside his study, still dressed in her finery from the ball. She looks even more beautiful than the day she was presented before the queen. He has never had trouble understanding why every eligible bachelor in the ton is interested in her, but tonight she takes his breath away.

“Daphne,” he exclaims, almost running into her. “I had thought you had gone to bed. Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly,” Daphne tells him, and it’s plain that she is lying. He cocks his head in disbelief, and she sighs. “The duke is to leave London. But it is no matter. It was an inevitability, and besides, I have secured the attentions of the prince.”

He supposes he should be happy about that. His sister, a princess. She deserves no less. And yet he is still not satisfied. There is still a horrible heaviness in the pit of his stomach that tells him it’s all wrong. But if a _prince_ isn’t good enough for his Daphne, then who on earth ever will be?

He forces a smile. “You must be very happy. And to think I almost spoiled it all. How you must hate me,” he jokes.

“Hush, brother,” she laughs, gently nudging his arm with hers. “You know all is forgiven. You have more than redeemed yourself.” The statement is accompanied with a blush, and Anthony’s stomach lurches, heat rushing to his own face, sure she can only be referring to their conversation two nights ago. 

“You tried it, then?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. 

Daphne nods, her blush deepening, catching her lip in her teeth. A gesture Anthony is beginning to think is reserved solely for him. He’s mesmerised by it. 

“And?” he prompts, voice low and husky. _Did you come?_ The words sizzle on his tongue, but he holds them back. Would she even understand the phrase?

“I think, perhaps, I almost…” she trails off, not having the words for what she _almost_ experienced. 

“Came,” he finishes for her. “You almost came.”

Daphne nods, her lips parting. “Is that the proper word for it?”

“I suppose _orgasm_ is the technical word for it,” he says. What is he doing? These are not words he should be saying to a lady, let alone his _sister._

“It’s very frustrating,” Daphne muses. “To _almost_ know what it feels like.”

“Yes,” Anthony agrees. “It isn’t pleasant to be left on the precipice.” It isn’t pleasant _now,_ with his cock half hard at this mere discussion. He needs to end it, so he can retire to his room and either think of other things until it goes away, or else rub his cock raw.

There is a short silence, not uncomfortable, but oddly charged, as the two consider each other.

“Will you show me how to do it?” Daphne whispers. 

Anthony chokes on the very air he’s breathing. “Certainly not,” he splutters.

Daphne tenses, taking a defensive stance. “Why not?” Is she _serious_?

“Daph,” Anthony groans. “You must know how inappropriate that would be. I’m your _brother._ I shouldn’t even be discussing these things with you, let alone—" he stops, unable to even speak it out loud. “And to defile you in such a way. That part of you is reserved for your husband alone.”

“But it wouldn’t count if it were you,” Daphne whispers. He sees the need in her eyes, but he also sees the doubt, the guilt. She must know what she’s asking him is unthinkable. She cannot be so naive to not realise that a brother and sister should not be intimate in such a way. 

The worst thing, though, is that he wants to. He has denied it to himself over the last two days, putting his foul mood and constant state of arousal down to his falling out with Siena. But here, now, with her asking him so sweetly, he cannot deny the pull of her. The absolute rabid hunger he felt when she whispered that taboo question. The images that filled his brain of his fingers between her legs, his tongue on her clit. He could make her feel good, he knows that he could. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach—but not as sick as he should.

“No,” he growls. “Daphne, it is wrong, you must know it. Surely you are not that naive to know that it _would_ count. It would be _worse._ Imagine what Lady Whistledown would say if she were to find out I touched you.”

“But no one blinks an eye if we are alone together,” Daphne protests. “If it is worse, why should it be okay for me to be alone with you but not with another man?”

“Because the thought should not even cross my mind!” Anthony says desperately. His cock is throbbing. He loathes himself. “Because I should only wish to protect you from such intentions. Because it is so much worse that it is unthinkable to decent people.”

Daphne swallows, and Anthony’s eyes drop to her delicate neck, squashing the urge to press his lips there. He’s sick in the head. He should be locked up.

“We are decent people,” Daphne says. “You needn’t touch me. Just—tell me what to do.”

“You want me to watch,” he surmises, voice thick. 

“Please,” Daphne begs. “I just want to understand. You’re the only one who can help me.”

Against his better judgement, Anthony nods. She has appealed to the side of him she knows he cannot resist—the older brother in him that wants to help her, to teach her. Despite how non-brotherly the act she is asking him to do is.

“Not here,” he says hoarsely. He nods in the direction of her room, and he almost puts an arm out to guide her there, but thinks better of it. With the electricity crackling through his veins right now, he’s not sure it would be wise to touch her.

Instead, she leads the way, and he follows, nervous, glancing around like someone might come out and catch them in the act at any moment. Even though, to the naked eye, there is nothing untoward about two siblings walking along a hallway fully clothed.

They enter her room, and already Anthony feels as though he has crossed a line. He shouldn’t be here. And yet he stays, and he lets her close and lock the door behind him.

“Rose…?” he questions, looking towards the door.

“I sent her to bed,” Daphne assures him. He swallows, heart pounding, hands sweating. 

He watched as Daphne delicately removes the tiara from her hair and places it on the vanity table. Pins follow it, and she shakes out her curls, letting them fall loose around her shoulders. The sight should not be so mesmerising.

When her hands move to the back of her dress, with the clear intention of undoing it, he hurriedly turns away. As if he won’t be watching her do something far more scandalous in a matter of minutes. 

He stares at the wall intently, trying to ignore what’s going on behind him, but she’s taking a long time and he can hear her struggling. He glances over to see she’s only managed to unfasten two buttons on the back of her dress. Her lady’s maid would usually do this for her, he supposes. His eyes remain on her as he watches her fumble with a third button, her arms at an awkward angle, until he cannot bear to watch her suffer anymore.

He strides over and gently bats her hands away, deftly undoing the buttons himself. It isn’t until the shimmery white dress falls to the floor that he even really registers what he’s doing. Undressing his own sister. His pure, untouched, virgin sister. His stomach drops, a sick feeling pooling there.

She stands there in her undergarments, facing away from him, so he cannot see her face, cannot even begin to guess what she might be thinking. But she hasn’t _stopped_ him. And looking at the tightly laced corset binding her, he’s sure she will need assistance with that as well. 

Making the decision, he gently pulls at the laces. Her breath hitches, but she conveys no other reaction.

“This is okay?” he asks her, slowly unlacing the corset.

“Yes,” she replies, breathless. 

He wishes he could read her mind. Does she find this as erotic as he does? Is the thought of him undressing her, watching her touch herself, causing her to drip arousal down her thighs, the way it’s making him throb in his breeches? Or is it all truly educational for her? And if she knew what he was truly thinking, would she stop this? Tell him to leave? Never speak to him again?

He loosens the rest of the laces, then steps away, allowing Daphne to remove the garment herself. 

She glances at him as she makes her way to the bed, dressed only in her chemise and stockings. She lies down, and Anthony can only stand there looking like a fool, heart in his throat, terrified to move.

Is he really going to do this? How can he? How can he _not_? 

Guilt swarms in his stomach. Deep down he knows he is taking advantage. He’s in the position of power, he could easily stop this. His sister doesn’t know any better. He _does._

And yet he’s letting it happen. And he’s lying to himself when he says it’s for her benefit. He knows nothing about this will benefit her—it can only serve to confuse her at best, and at worst traumatise her. But he cannot walk away, because he wants it too badly. Wants to watch his sister orgasm in front of him, wants to be the one to teach her pleasure. He’s a sick, sick man.

“You can hardly see anything from all the way over there,” Daphne says. “You must sit on the bed.”

He nods, obeying her wishes as if in a trance. He perches himself on the edge of her bed, mere inches from her legs. Her chemise has ridden up to her knees, and he has to stifle the urge to push it up further, to roll her stockings down and leave her bare to his touch. 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to get a handle on himself. When he opens them again, she’s looking at him, shy but trusting. He feels like the worst man on the planet. 

“What should I do?” she asks him. 

He hesitates. Where to even begin?

“Did you touch your breasts last time?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“A little,” she admits. 

“Start there,” he instructs. “Close your eyes. Think of—of someone else touching you.” He cannot bring himself to tell her to think of Simon, even if he knows that’s where her thoughts will lead her.

He watches as Daphne brings her hands to her dainty little breasts, her eyes closed now. It’s easier when she’s not looking at him. 

“Use your fingers to play with your nipples,” Anthony continues. She does as he instructs, and he can see them harden under her touch, the outline visible through her thin undergarments. “Does it feel good?”

“I don’t know,” Daphne says.

“That’s okay,” he assures her. “Put your hand between your legs.”

She drops one hand from her breast, slowly sliding it under her chemise, causing the fabric to bunch up around her thighs, revealing more of her smooth, pale legs. He pictures his lips against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He cannot see where her hand disappears under her chemise, but even that visual is enough to make his head spin.

“Are you wet?” he asks. _Did I make you wet?_ He feels as though he isn’t really there, that he is watching from afar, that someone else has taken control of his body, his mind.

“Yes,” Daphne breathes. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” he affirms, his voice is hoarse. “It means you are aroused. Do you feel it?” Daphne nods. “What does it feel like?”

“I feel like—there is an urgency. There is a pulse between my legs that will not stop, it demands attention.”

“Did you find your clit? The bud I talked about?”

Daphne opens her eyes. “I think so,” she whispers. 

“Touch it now. Rub it gently with your fingers.” 

Her fingers move under the fabric, a small whimper escaping her lips. “Let me see,” Anthony growls, the words leaving his lips before he can think better of it.

Daphne doesn’t hesitate. She uses her free hand to drag her chemise up over her hips, revealing herself to him. The sight of her naked, wet cunt makes his head spin. Her fingers are nestled between her legs, beneath a thatch of strawberry blonde hair. He stares, transfixed, what was left of his rational thought leaving him.

“Anthony,” Daphne whimpers, the sound of his name on her lips in this state going straight to his cock. _Anthony. Anthony._ So simple, and yet he knows it will haunt him for many nights to come, perhaps even more so than the intoxicating visual laid out before him.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “A little faster if you like.” She increases her pace, a tiny moan slipping from her lips. “Have you tried putting your fingers inside yourself?”

“I couldn’t,” she says, her voice strained. “It was too tight, I—I was afraid of hurting myself.”

Anthony lets out a strangled groan. The thought of her pussy being so tight she can’t even put one of her tiny little fingers in. He longs to take over, push his own fingers into her, show her exactly how to do it, where to put her fingers, feel her stretch on his much thicker ones.

“Try again,” he urges.

Daphne obliges, lowering her fingers down into her folds, trying to locate her opening. Anthony clenches his fists to stop himself from helping her. Impatient energy surges through him, threatens to overflow.

A tiny squeak from Daphne, lets him know she’s found her mark, and is now trying to work her fingers inside her cunt.

“Relax,” Anthony whispers. Her places a hand on her calf—innocent enough, under any other circumstances. He rubs his hand up and down, and he sees her posture change, the tension slowly releasing. She widens her knees, tilts her hips up, and he sees a finger sink inside her.

His cock is truly throbbing now, so hard it’s almost painful, and he drops his other hand to his crotch, trying to rearrange, to find some relief. It’s futile.

“Can you try another?”

Daphne nods, and she works another finger inside herself, looking dazed and breathless, like she’s exerted herself too much. She has no idea what she’s in store for when she finally gets a cock inside her.

“How does is feel?” he asks urgently. Daphne simply nods, her mouth and jaw tight. Her eyes glisten with tears of pleasure, as she curls her fingers into her pussy, rocking her hips against her hand.

She gasps, and Anthony grips her tighter where his hand still rests on her shin.

“It’s not enough,” she whines.

“Move back to your clit,” he tells her. “Touch it how you like.”

Her fingers dance back to her clit, and she circles it with the pad of a finger, slowly increasing the pace. He can see it building in the way her breathing changes, in the way she arches her back, can hear it in the tiny, unspeakably erotic sounds that escape her. He can almost feel it building in himself, just from watching her. It’s unbearable.

“Anthony,” she gasps. “I think I’m almost—” she cuts herself off with a whine, her fingers moving even faster now as she desperately chases that crescendo.

He sees it hit her, sees the way her eyelids flutter, her whole body stiffening, and then writhing through it, her fingers pressed hard against her clit. She’s mostly quiet, only a tiny moan slipping from her lips, gasping through the rest of it.

Anthony lets his eyes linger over her, committing this sight to memory, for when he’s alone, for when he’s deep in this wicked, revolting fantasy that he’s conjured up of late. He removes his hand from her leg, and reaches up to pull her chemise back into place, before he averts his eyes, as if looking away now may save his mortal soul from what he’s done.

“That was—” Daphne breathes. Anthony risks a glance at her. She’s flushed and glowing, her chest rising and falling dramatically as she regains her composure. “ _Amazing_.”

Anthony cannot suppress the smile that teases the corners of his lips. At least his sister is happy, even if he will torture himself for this for all eternity. “Indeed,” he murmurs.

“What is it like?” Daphne asks breathily. “For you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, brushing her off. She does not need to know how he aches, how watching her like this has awakened something beastly in him that he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to set to rest.

“I wish to know,” she insists, sitting up. “Show me what it’s like for you. When you touch yourself.”

His fingers curl around his cock, over his trousers, almost subconsciously.

“Daphne,” he pleads, knowing if she asks again, he will give in. Because he is weak, because he wants to please her, and simply because he is desperate for it. “A lady should not see what is beneath a man’s trousers. Least of all her _brother’s_.”

“And yet you have seen me,” she points out. “Is it not only fair?”

 _Fair_. Anthony almost snorts out loud at the word. It is not fair that he should be in this situation in the first place. That he should have a litany of women at his fingertips, and yet be so enticed by his own, beautiful, incomparable sister. That she be put in a position where she felt she had to come to _him_ for advice.

“I suppose it is,” he concedes. Slowly, he lets his fingers move to the buttons on his breeches, Daphne’s eyes watching intently. He cannot begin to imagine what she is getting out of this. To prepare herself for what it might be like with her husband?

He frees himself from the confines of his trousers, yet it is no relief. He meets Daphne’s wide, inquisitive eyes. She shows no fear, no disgust. She licks her lips.

“Is that—” she starts, but seems unable to finish the sentence. “On the wedding night,” she rephrases, “how do I—make you feel—make my _husband_ feel,” she corrects, “like I felt?”

“Like this,” Anthony says.

He wraps a hand around himself, pumping slowly at first, using the liquid leaking from the tip of his cock to lubricate the motion. His breath comes in short bursts as he speeds up. He closes his eyes, but he is still all too aware of Daphne watching him, and it is her face, her body, he sees as he strokes himself. He imagines what it would be like to taste her. To be the first to touch her. The _only_ one to touch her.

“On the wedding night,” he pants, thrusting harder now, half desperate to get this over with, half wanting to hold out, show her he can last, though it would mean nothing to her. “You will take your husband’s cock inside you. The way you did with your fingers.”

Her sharp intake of breath makes him regret his choice of words, but he’s too far gone for an apology now. He can feel the edge drawing closer, desperation striking him.

She still doesn’t look afraid, more astonished, as she eyes his cock with intense fascination.

“Surely it’s too big—surely it wouldn’t _fit_ ,” she squeaks.

Anthony manages a laugh at that. “Fear not, sister,” he grunts. “I do not think you have any cause to worry about that with the prince.”

She bites her lip again, still watching him jerk himself. God, he wishes he knew what she were thinking. He wishes she would put those pretty lips of hers in the stead of his hand. It’s that thought that pushes him over.

“Fuck,” he swears, the word slipping out before he can stop it. He moans as his seed spills from his cock, and he has the presence of mind to make sure it only lands on his own clothing, nothing staining her bedsheets that could alert a maid to what they’ve been up to.

“Oh,” Daphne says, eyeing the mess with trepidation.

Guilt truly hits Anthony now, now that his desire has been sated, and the truth of what he has done sets in.

“Daphne,” he chokes, hurriedly tucking his cock away and rebuttoning his trousers. “Daph, I’m so sorry.” He feels sick to his stomach. He crossed a line he never should have crossed.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“I asked you to.”

“I should have denied you.”

Daphne shakes her head. “Anthony—”

“We must never speak of this,” Anthony says, hushed, urgent. He rises to his feet. “Do you understand?”

Daphne nods. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, sister,” he murmurs. He presses a chaste kiss to the top of her hair, letting her floral scent engulf him, and then he swiftly leaves the room, the shame of what he has done weighing on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience. i hope this is worth it.

Anthony thinks he does an impeccable job of pretending like everything is normal. That he didn’t watch his sister as she fingered herself to orgasm, that she didn’t in turn watch him stroke his cock until he came all over himself. That he didn’t go to bed that night and think of her as he got himself off again. 

He looks her in the eye as he offers her the prince’s invitation to the boxing match. He acts pleased, even. It must appear to everyone, including Daphne herself, that he is happy for his sister, that she’s finally being courted by a man with good intentions, a man worthy of her.

He must stifle the thoughts that tell him there is no such man. Just because it cannot be him. Of course, he does not wish it could be him. He is not allowed to wish it could be him. He _is_ happy for her. As long as she is happy, he is happy too.

He knows his mother would not approve of him escorting Daphne to a boxing match, and yet he does anyway, because it is what Daphne wants, and it is all in pursuit of the prince, and isn’t that what everyone wants? For Daphne to marry the prince? And besides, have they not done far worse together, far more to earn their mother’s disapproval? Anything else in comparison seems perfectly acceptable.

God, what would his mother say if she knew what he’s done? What would his _father_ say, if he were alive to see it? Anthony buries those thoughts. He cannot dwell on it. No one need ever find out, and as long as it goes no further, as long as he can control his thoughts, his impulses, there is no real harm done. His sister is still innocent, pure, and he, as far as anyone knows, is nothing but a supportive, if slightly over-protective, older brother.

He takes Daphne to the boxing match, to aid her quest to marry the prince, and he can pretend he is happy for her, but he cannot deny the swell of pride he has to have her on his arm. As a brother should be, for her grace and maturity and her upholding the family name. Not because she is a beautiful woman who came here with him.

If he stares at her across the ring for the entire match, it is only because he is keeping an eye on her, making sure she is safe and happy, as is his duty as her older brother.

And when the prince graciously asks him for Daphne’s hand, as predicted, he plasters a smile on his face and dutifully informs him that he shall ask his sister. He has learned his lesson on that account. He does not stop to dwell on the visceral reaction that tells him he hopes she says _no._

His mother’s reaction upon learning of the boxing match is predictable, and Anthony clamps down on the urge to snap back at her, shock her— _oh mother, if only you knew what else we’ve been up to_. Instead, he brushes her off and relays to Daphne the good news of the prince’s proposal.

He does not expect her uncertain reaction. Surely she should be rejoicing? She meets his eye over the pianoforte, and he gives her a reassuring smile, but it does not seem to ease her doubt, and consequently, his own doubt starts to seep through the cracks of his carefully constructed façade.

He has to leave, before he voices his true, unwanted opinion. An opinion he has no right to have. 

He makes it to the front gate when he hears Daphne call out for him. He stops, turning to see her just behind him on the front steps. She descends, and he steps towards her, meeting her halfway, not even aware he’s doing it.

“Is everything okay?” he asks quickly, concerned. “Have you an answer already?”

Daphne shakes her head. He can see that same doubt, that same fear in her eyes. “What should I do?” she whispers, despairingly.

It takes Anthony a beat to realise she’s actually asking his advice on this matter. It’s unexpected—she certainly did not want his assistance choosing a husband before. 

“I think we both know my opinion on the matter is of no consequence,” he says, wry smile on his face.

“But it is,” Daphne insists. “I know you say you have no objections, but—do you really believe I should marry him?”

_No,_ he wants to scream. But it is only because he does not wish for her to marry _anyone,_ and that, he simply cannot tell her. She will ask him why, and he cannot explain. He could not even explain it to himself with any semblance of sanity. It’s not like—no, he cannot even finish that thought.

“If this is about what I said about him two nights ago—"

“I thought you said we were never to speak of that,” Daphne whispers, colour flooding to her face.

A jolt. It had been a flippant comment, a joke to try to deflect from his true feelings. But now he’s inadvertently brought up their shameful encounter. And he is forgetting, she is still a lady, and still his sister and he knows better than to make such jokes around her anyway.

“You’re right,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

She bites her lip, and his eyes catch there, before meeting hers again. He thinks perhaps she is still enamoured with Hastings, and that is why she is having such doubts. Does she wish for him to tell her there may still be a chance with the duke? He cannot bring himself to dash her dreams, and yet he cannot give her false hope either.

But the prince is not an unattractive man, and Daphne will surely find him suitable enough, whether or not Anthony’s jab at the size of his cock turns out to be correct. And besides which—of the two, the prince is the only one who has presented himself to be an option. No, they must make their peace with it, he and Daphne both.

“You know I believe no one will ever be good enough for you,” he says. “But you must marry. And what better match than a prince?”

He smiles, though it pains him to say it. Daphne nods. 

“Thank you, brother,” she says, donning her perfect, practised smile, the same way he has. And as she retreats back into the house, he feels deeply unsettled that they have to use those smiles on each other.

-

It’s supposed to be an evening of joy and splendour. And yet Anthony has been sulking all night. He’s sure his mood has not escaped the attention of anyone who tries to approach him, and consequently he has stopped being approached. Good. He does not want to mingle and make small talk tonight. Everywhere he looks he is reminded of his own failings.

Siena, ravishing and imposing, projecting her beautiful voice across the room, making her impossible to ignore. She reminds him of his inadequacy, of his mistakes, of his dreaded future. But it is not Siena that puts the longing ache in his chest, no matter how he tries to convince himself that it is her he pines after.

No, that honour belongs to his radiant sister. Last night he dreamt they were naked together, that she was on her knees between his legs, looking up at him with those innocent blue eyes. He’d woken before her mouth could touch him, but it did not stop him from imagining the rest, frantically stroking himself as he pictured his sister sucking his cock.

And now he cannot rid the thought from his mind. Cannot stop thinking about kissing her, taking her virtue, teaching her pleasure. He knows he cannot act on the fantasies he’s been entertaining, knows he would never cross that line. Not unless she asked. But she will not ask, because she isn’t disturbed like he is, doesn’t think of him the way he thinks of her.

He watches her dance with the prince, sick feeling in his stomach, knowing by the end of the night she will likely be engaged. It’s for the best. It’s for the best. If he repeats it enough times, perhaps he will believe it’s true.

He downs another drink, and in the meantime, loses sight of his sister. Probably gone to tell their mother the good news. Bitterness, frustration, anger and envy bubble inside him, his emotions too large for his body, too large for this ballroom.

He stalks out, finding himself alone in the dark, self-loathing consuming him. Can he not even be happy for his sister’s success? What does he think, that if she marries no one, she will be allowed to be _his?_ He is the most selfish, despicable man on the planet. His father would be so ashamed of him.

Through the overwhelming noise of his own self-pity, he hears voices in the garden. Not close enough for him to make out who it is, or what they’re saying, but enough to let anxiety seep into his gut. Without another thought, he follows the voices, his paces long and quick between the hedgerows. His urgency grows as the voices become quiet, and he bursts through an archway, his searching ending in the worst way possible.

Daphne, wrapped in Simon’s embrace, his filthy hands touching her all over. Anthony acts without thinking, rage and betrayal and jealousy coursing through him, fuelling his actions. He throws Simon to the ground, fists flying, making contact with the duke’s face, and it feels good to channel his fury into violence, but it doesn’t come close to satisfying the desperate need for vengeance he has.

He wants to wrap his bare hands around Simon’s neck for daring to lay a hand on his sister. For being the one to teach Daphne what it means to be kissed, because deep down perhaps he hoped that it would be he himself who got to show her that. For daring to do what he himself cannot, what he longs to.

He knows the duke must have a shred of honour somewhere deep inside him, but if he does, he does not choose now as the moment to show it. Anthony can almost hear his sister’s heart break as the duke refuses her hand—he does not delight in it, but he is almost glad of a reason to challenge Hastings to a duel.

He failed to protect his sister’s honour more than once now, and he shall not do so again.

-

The duel is set for dawn, still hours from now. Plenty of time to get his affairs in order before he possibly meets his untimely end.

He escorts Daphne from the party, his coat draped over her shoulders, her tucked under his arm, pressed against his side in the carriage ride home. His heart beats erratically, and he pushes away any thoughts that tell him how nice it is to have her so close to him.

She doesn’t speak on the journey, still in shock from the events that transpired. He doesn’t blame her, of course he doesn’t. Hastings must have coerced her, charmed her, confused her. He does not want to believe the alternative.

He hates to see her like this, lifeless, distraught. He wishes he could comfort her better. His lips long to touch her, make her feel better. But he holds himself in check. He is her brother and he will act as her brother should to defend her honour, and nothing more.

She seems to gain some life once they’ve arrived home, perhaps the reality of the situation finally sinking in. She is angry with him, and he hates it, but this time he truly knows that what he is doing is right.

He sends her to bed, heart heavy, half wanting to change his mind, tell her there’s another way, if only so she would be happy with him again. But he knows there is not, and he must act in the best interests of the whole family. It is his duty.

He enlists the help of his brothers, then sends them away. He’s left with hours until dawn, and entirely too much time to think. He may well die come morning. And should he not, he will be a killer, and will have to flee the country.

Either way, he will never see his sister again.

He finds himself outside her door. He should not be here. It only gives her further chance to persuade him to call off the duel. But he cannot help himself. His heart tugs him here. He must say goodbye to her, however angry she may be with him.

He knocks timidly, and moments later she flings the door open, dressed in her nightgown, her hair loose. He thinks she looks even more beautiful like this than when she is dressed in finery for a ball.

“Anthony,” she says, already pleading. “Say you are here to tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

He shakes his head, stepping into her room, closing the doors behind him. He glances at the bed, the memory of what they did last time he was in here flashing through his mind.

“I only came to say goodbye,” he says softly.

To his surprise, Daphne bursts into tears. “I cannot bear it,” she says. “You cannot go through with it.”

“Daphne, what the duke has done—”

“Forget what the duke has done!” she all but screams in frustration. “If the duel goes as you wish it to, I shall never see either of you again. And you will have killed your oldest friend.”

“He is no friend of mine.”

Her tears have stopped, and Anthony steps forward to wipe the remnants from her face with his thumbs.

“I cannot in good conscience let him get away with what he has done to you. Seeing you like that with him—it ignited a rage that cannot be extinguished in any other manner.” He drops his hands, stepping back before he can do something stupid.

“Why? Because you believe me to be some innocent flower, a naïve little girl who should know nothing of men, of—”

“Because it should have been me!” Anthony bursts, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Daphne gapes at him, and he wants to take it back, but he cannot, cannot find the words to explain himself. What is there to explain? His meaning is perfectly obvious.

“But you said—” Daphne says breathlessly. “You’re my brother, you said you shouldn’t think of me that way.”

“I shouldn’t,” he agrees. “And yet I do.”

Another tear drips down Daphne’s cheek. “Anthony—”

“Daph,” he cuts her off. He cannot bear to hear what she has to say. To hear the disgust in her voice, the judgement as she rebukes him for his confession. “It no longer matters. I apologise for—for all of it. I have caused you nothing but pain from the moment you were born, but I shall not burden you any further. This is the one thing I can do. And you will not have to see me again after tonight.”

Daphne shakes her head slowly, uncomprehending. He supposes it is a lot to take in. He takes a tentative step forward, and to his relief, she doesn’t back away. His eyes flick to her lips. She has been compromised now anyway, her virtue tainted. And it is the last time they shall see each other. What would it matter? One kiss that he can carry with him to the grave. One kiss, just to know what it feels like.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering mere breaths above hers, giving her the chance to escape if she wishes. Giving _himself_ the opportunity to think better of it. But Daphne doesn’t move, and he is too far gone to change his mind.

He presses his lips to hers, sweet and chaste. A goodbye kiss. But then he lingers too long, brushes his nose against hers, kisses her a little harder. Her lips part, and he cannot stop himself from taking advantage, slipping his tongue into her mouth.

He moans as her tongue meets his, and she responds with a whimper, her mouth moving against his now. His stomach lurches, his cock jolts to attention, quickly hardening. He’s kissing his sister—and the way she’s kissing him back, it’s like she truly wants him to. Like she has hungered for this as he has. His head is spinning, his mouth moving without thinking, only taking what he needs, what he has longed for, what he can feel her asking for in the way she returns his kiss.

His arms circle around her waist, crushing her to his chest, and her own arms find their way around his neck. It is wrong, he knows it’s wrong, can feel it. And yet it feels so right too. He wants more, yearns to touch her as a husband touches a wife.

He wrenches himself away from her before it can go any further, putting a distance between them as he reaches for the door.

“Anthony—”

“Goodbye, sister,” he says, a finality to his tone. Her heavy breathing mirrors his own, her eyes wild, her lips swollen and red. He cannot bring himself to smile, not when he is looking upon her for the last time, when there is an ache in him so deep he wonders if it has not been there much longer than he could possibly have realised. “Know I love you,” he tells her, and then he makes his exit, before she can convince him to stay.

-

He goes to Siena. If he is to have any chance at happiness after he has killed Hastings, it will be with the only woman who has made him feel even close to what Daphne makes him feel. He pleads his case, only half expecting her to forgive him. But forgive him she does, and guilt eats at him because he knows he doesn’t deserve it, because it is not Siena he wants, because he sees his sister’s face as he fucks the woman he once thought he loved.

It is not love, with Siena. He cares for her, lusts for her, if not with quite the same simmering heat that he feels for his sister. But it is close enough. It has to be enough.

Come dawn, he slips from Siena’s bed and into the cool morning light, ready to meet his fate.

It’s not nerves he feels as he makes the journey to the agreed upon location. It’s not excitement either—he’s not that unfeeling. He takes no joy in this. It’s just a sturdy sense of obligation, telling him that what he is doing is right. His sister, his family, deserve justice. And bleeding into that strong, moral feeling, there is his wounded pride, his visceral jealousy, his self-righteous fury. The first feeling allows him to wield the gun—the second will allow him to fire it.

It is not the face of an old friend he sees staring back at him as they ready themselves for the duel. The sight of Simon’s face does not put doubt or guilt into him, only steels his resolve even more. He is almost overwhelmed with the urge to hit him again. It is a blessing he’s become so used to controlling his impulses of late.

They take their pistols, turn, take their twenty paces. There is a moment, as Anthony turns back to aim his pistol, that he thinks he won’t be able to do it. Simon has his own pistol raised to the sky, and he feels a slight twinge of guilt. Daphne would not want this. _He_ doesn’t want this, not truly. Vengeance will not change anything. And could he truly live with himself with another man’s death on his hands?

He hesitates—only for a moment. He reminds himself what Hastings has done, as images of last night burn through his brain. Simon’s mouth on Daphne’s, Simon’s hands on her body. A fresh surge of wrath pulses through him. He fires. Just as Daphne herself rides into the field between the two.

His stomach plummets as Daphne falls from her horse, too shocked for half a second to even move. Simon acts first, which prompts Anthony into action, racing towards his sister, heart pounding, guilt pooling in his stomach.

He shoves Hastings aside as he crouches over his sister. Surely he hasn’t—surely she’s okay? His hands ghost over her body, afraid to touch her, desperate to touch her, panicked, feeling sick to his stomach. If he has hurt her in any way, he will never forgive himself.

She gives a groan, and relief floods his chest as she sits up. “Oh, good god,” he breathes.

“Are you hurt? Tell me!” Simon urges. Anthony bites his tongue—as if the duke has any right to be concerned over Daphne’s well-being. It certainly did not matter to him last night.

Daphne gets to her feet. “I am perfectly well. No thanks to you idiots.”

Anthony swallows thickly. If they were alone, he would kiss her, make sure she knows how sorry he is. But he cannot, so he addresses his shame and remorse in the only way he knows how—with defensive anger.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he growls.

“Says the man who just shot at me!” Daphne bites back. God, does she not know how much he cares for her? How worried he was when he thought he hurt her?

“You just rode into the middle of a duel!” he says, exasperated.

“I require a moment with the duke.” Daphne says, brushing off his reproach.

“Daphne—” he pleads, reaching for her. He does not want them alone together, no matter if they’re in plain sight. He wants to take her home, where she’ll be safe, where he can take care of her. But Benedict thwarts him, calm and commanding in a way Anthony cannot be at this moment.

He cannot think straight. His emotions are a mess, his stomach churning, his pulse racing. Why is he only ever this way when it comes to Daphne? Nobody else gets him quite so bothered as she does. Turns him wild and violent. And he knows the answer all too well now, doesn’t he? But is it his attraction to her that makes him crazy, or was it the other way around? Did his ferocious brotherly protectiveness turn into something else?

He watches the exchange anxiously, forcing himself to stay put. He wishes he knew what they were saying. Does Daphne hope still to change the duke’s mind?

“Why did you bring her here?” he snaps at Colin.

“She believes someone witnessed her and Hastings in the garden,” Colin says.

Anthony stiffens. “All the more reason for the duel to go ahead,” he scowls. “She will not change his mind. This is the only way.”

Colin simply nods, but he does not look convinced. Anthony looks to his other brother, daring either one of them to contradict him. Do they believe he is overreacting? Are his feelings for Daphne clouding his judgement? Or are they simply worried for his own safety? Would they do the same thing, if the stood in his shoes?

He glances back to where Daphne and Simon are talking. He strides forward—this has gone on long enough. “We must resume before someone should find us.”

“There will be no need to resume,” Daphne says. Anthony stops in the midst of reloading his pistol, turning to look at her. What possible reason can she have to delay them any further? His heart aches for her, it does, but there is no getting around this.

“The duke and I are to be married,” she says, firmly, decisively. Anthony’s stomach drops, and he whips his head around to Hastings, looking for confirmation. Surely the duke will deny it. The prolonged silence gives room for anxiety to creep in, and then finally, Simon gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Anthony says nothing. He feels as though his throat has closed over. He cannot breathe. But this is what he wanted, is it not? Truly the best outcome for all of them. Nobody has to die, nobody has to be shamed by the ton. And yet he is miserable.

“Well, that is great news,” Benedict smiles, the first to address the engagement announcement. Colin claps his hands together a few times before realising no one else is going to join in.

The mood is unbearably sombre for what should be a happy revelation. Of course, Anthony is all too aware of why _he_ isn’t happy. And obviously Hastings has been roped into a marriage he never wanted. But Daphne—shouldn’t she be overcome with joy? Is this not everything she wanted? She is saved from disgrace, marrying a man she has admitted she is attracted to. A duke, at that.

And yet when Anthony looks at her, all he sees his despair. She meets his eyes with her tear-filled ones, and his heart lurches. An unspoken plea in her expression.

“I will escort Daphne home,” Anthony announces. “We should all return before someone notices our absence.”

“We are perfectly capable of escorting our sister home, brother,” Benedict tells him. “You should return to your own lodgings. Get some sleep. You look awful.”

He glances back at Daphne, feels the tug of her. He needs to speak with her, alone. Yet he cannot deny his brother’s suggestion makes the most sense.

He nods shortly. “Very well.” He casts another look towards Daphne, and she gives him a reassuring nod. She will be fine. Of course she will. She does not need him, has never needed him. Perhaps once she is married, gone, he will finally come to terms with that fact and be able to move on with his pathetic excuse for a life.

-

The days pass in a blur. Siena is gone, tired of broken promises. He should not be surprised. He wishes he could disappear too. Instead, he must put on a brave face, a happy smile. His sister is to be wed to the duke. As quickly as possible.

There are none of the joyous celebrations a wedding should bring. With the circumstances of the engagement, everything is done in haste. Anthony is given no other duty than to procure the special license that will allow the happy couple to wed within the week. That, and it will be his privilege as the eldest brother to escort his sister down the aisle, giving her away in the stead of their late father.

He almost wishes he were given more to do, if only to keep his mind busy. As it is, he is left with too much time on his hands to dwell on things he knows better to dwell on. The feel of his sister’s tongue in his mouth, for instance. He can only cringe when he thinks of it. Had he really allowed himself such a moment of weakness? What must she think of him? She must be itching for this wedding to be over so she can be free of him and his perverse fantasies.

He should apologise to her, but for one thing, the very thought of bringing up the illicit encounter makes him choke on his tongue, and for another, she hardly has a moment to spare him between dress fittings, wedding planning, and social engagements. It is better this way. Better if he doesn’t have a chance to put his foot in it yet again.

Aside from his thoughts of Daphne, there is also the matter of the duke to contend with. Not the fact that he is marrying his sister—although he should probably address that at some point too. More importantly though, there is the fact that he sort of tried to shoot him. And if they are to be brothers-in-law—which it seems there is no getting out of now—Anthony should probably swallow his pride and apologise. No matter how sour the apology tastes on his tongue.

Hastings had done the right thing in the end—Anthony does not wish to hold a grudge. He wishes to move on with his life, and not spare much thought to the duke and his soon to be duchess, except when he is required to be in their presence. He does not think he shall soon forget, though, the vivid silhouette of his sister’s body entwined with his friend’s.

Hastings promises Anthony that he shall look after his sister—words that should comfort him, he knows. But Anthony hears the words the Simon does not say, words perhaps he’s not even thinking—Anthony hears it all the same. _As you should have done_. Anthony resists the urge to defend himself against an accusation that has not been thrown at him. He tried his best. Is it his fault his best was shockingly, embarrassingly inadequate?

A smaller, more goading voice questions him—was it really his best if he ended up with his mouth on Daphne’s, aching for more?

-

He spends the night before the wedding at Bridgerton House, rather than his own bachelor lodgings. It is simpler, as he will be the one to escort Daphne to the church. And perhaps he hopes he will work up the courage to speak to her frankly, to address the things that have gone on between them, explain them away with his usual jaunty manner, and set her mind at ease that he is harbouring no secret, forbidden feelings towards her.

But after dinner, she goes straight to bed, at their mother’s insistence that she get an early night so she will be well-rested for the big day. Anthony watches her go, heart in his throat. Tomorrow she will be a married woman. She will belong to someone else.

He retires early himself, unable to keep a conversation with his siblings, unable to focus on anything but his sister’s impending nuptials. He cannot sleep, however, and he lies awake, listening as the rest of his family eventually makes their way to bed, thinking of Daphne spending her last night alone in her room. Her last night as a virgin.

His stomach lurches, and he gives a low groan, burying his face into his soft pillow. He begs his mind to think of anything else, but it is useless. He is consumed by visions of Simon and Daphne together, of Simon undressing her, kissing her and touching her all over. Laying her down and pushing his cock into her, taking her innocence.

He does not trust Simon to do it right. It’s not that he doubts the duke’s ability to perform. He did earn his reputation as a rake.

But he cannot imagine that he would treat Daphne as Anthony himself would treat her. Gentle, coaxing, a lesson in pleasure. He can imagine exactly how he would touch her, make her come apart on his fingers. He wants to be the one to show her how it feels to take a cock inside her. Show her _everything_.

His traitorous, torturous mind will not give him peace, only letting him think of his sister, naked beneath his lips. It can only be for this reason that his first thought when there is a knock at his door is that it is Daphne, come to make his dreams come true.

He almost laughs at himself—perhaps one day he will be able to. More likely it is Colin, come to discuss what wedding night prank he can play on the duke. Or Gregory, woken from a nightmare and missing his father, coming to Anthony in his absence, as he used to do.

Anthony sits up, leaving the sheets to mostly cover his nakedness—his brothers will not be scandalised by his bare chest.

“Enter,” he calls.

The door creeps open, light from the hallway spilling inside, outlining his sister’s silhouette where she stands in the doorway, a candle in her hand. His heart leaps into his throat, and he sits up straighter.

“Daphne,” he chokes out.

“Can I come in?” she whispers, glancing behind her, as if worried someone will see her.

Anthony nods. “Of course.”

Daphne steps into the room, closing the door behind her, the lone candle in her hand the sole illumination in the room. She tiptoes over, sets the candle on the dresser, and perches herself on the edge of the bed, altogether too close for comfort. Anthony is suddenly excruciatingly aware of how naked he is. Daphne has never seen him like this. He has the urge to pull the sheets up over his shoulders, cover himself, save her innocent eyes. Yet, he knows, she is not so innocent as he once believed. And after tomorrow, her purity will well and truly be gone.

“Is everything alright?” he asks her. A stupid question. She would not have sought him out if everything were alright.

“It ought to be,” Daphne says, tremor in her voice.

“And yet?” Anthony murmurs. His allows his eyes to travel over her in the dim candlelight. Her nightgown has slipped off one shoulder, leaving it bare. He longs to press his lips there. Wants to brush his fingers through her loose copper-coloured waves.

“And yet,” Daphne agrees. Anthony meets her eyes. She does not continue.

“Are you concerned about—about the wedding night?”

Daphne bites her lip. “Not exactly.” Her eyes trail down his chest, and he feels his cock throb. He wishes he could tell it now is not the time.

She still doesn’t elaborate, and when it is plain she is not going to, Anthony decides now is as good a time as any to say what he needs to. It may be the only chance he gets.

“Daphne,” he starts. “I wanted to—to apologise. For my behaviour of late. It was most improper of me. I hope you do not think less of me for my temporary lapse in sanity.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say it,” Daphne confesses. “You were quite adamant that a duel be the gentleman’s way of dealing with such a matter.”

“Well,” Anthony says, colouring when he realises she has misunderstood the nature of his apology. “That is not what I—that is to say, I was speaking of—”

“When you kissed me,” Daphne finishes for him. The way she says it—shy but sure, a tiny rasp in her voice—only makes him want to do it again.

“Yes,” he says plainly. “I cannot explain myself, I’m afraid. I can only assure you that I understand the gravity, and the repulsiveness of my actions and that I will not allow it to happen again. I’m so very sorry to have caused you embarrassment and distress.”

“What cause would I have to be embarrassed or distressed?” Daphne asks, and it seems her question is genuine.

“I mean—to be kissed like _that—_ by your own brother. Do you not feel—ashamed?”

Daphne shakes her head. “I suppose I ought to,” she admits. “Just like I ought to feel happy or excited, or at the very least _relieved_ to be getting married.”

“But you do not,” Anthony guesses.

“I cannot stop thinking about it,” Daphne says, quietly, dropping her head.

“The wedding?”

Daphne shakes her head again. “You kissing me,” she admits. Her eyes land unmistakably on the tent his cock has formed in the sheet covering him. “What you said, before you kissed me.”

“What did I say?” he asks hoarsely, as if he doesn’t remember every indecent word of it. He swallows.

“That it should have been you.” She flicks her eyes back to his. “I think about you too. I’m not so naïve as you think. I know the things we’ve done are not proper, that if we were found out it would cause a bigger scandal than any we’ve seen. But I can’t stop thinking, thinking all the time, about, about how it would feel if you—”

“Daphne,” Anthony says, pleading, but for what he doesn’t know. For her to leave before he does something idiotic? Or pleading for her to put her mouth on him, end his suffering? He cannot bear to have her say these things, things he’s sure he must have dreamed up. He cannot deny her, and yet he cannot oblige her.

“Tomorrow night,” Daphne says, “I will be married. Simon and I will—” she falters, her innocence suddenly showing again as she struggles to find the right words. “Will perform the wedding night act.”

Anthony grits his teeth. “Yes.”

“Will you show me, first?”

“Daphne,” he groans. He reaches for her, taking her hand in his. “We cannot, we simply cannot. There is no worse thing I could do to you. Do you not hate me enough?”

“I do not hate you,” Daphne says. “I cannot explain what I feel for you. I love you as my brother, yes. But there is something else, something I do not feel for Benedict, or Colin. Something closer to what I feel for Simon.”

“I wish you would not speak of him,” Anthony says, before he can stop himself. He instantly regrets it. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “He is to be your husband.”

“But you will have me first,” she says, as if she knows exactly what he’s been thinking since she first asked him to show her how to touch herself. She slips her hand from his, reaching out to brush her fingers over the hair on his chest. “Please, Anthony.”

Anthony can barely breathe, let alone think. His baby sister, begging him to take her innocence, the night before her wedding. Touching his naked body, making his heart thrum and his cock throb. He cannot resist her. There are ways he could reason it—that she will be married tomorrow regardless. That he is doing her a service by preparing her.

But the simple fact is he wants her, and he wants to be her first, wants to make sure whenever she is with Simon in their marriage bed, she thinks of _him_ instead, her brother.

“Daph,” he breathes. He takes her hand where it rests on his chest, and brings it to his lips in a tender kiss. He drags his mouth to her wrist, kissing her there, then sucking on her pulse point, eliciting a small puff of air from his sister in surprise.

He pulls her closer, so she rests against his thigh, her chest against his, rising and falling dramatically. Their faces inches apart. He keeps her hand in his, and with the other he brushes her hair away from her perfect, heart-shaped face.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks.

Daphne nods. “It is all I think about.”

Anthony swallows. “Tell me to stop. If you need me to. If you change your mind.”

Daphne nods again, in understanding. Nothing else to dissuade him, Anthony closes the gap between their mouths, capturing her lips much more forcefully than he did a few nights ago. Daphne is quick to respond—he’s relieved to find there is no hesitation.

He slows his pace, exploring her mouth languidly, as his arms come to rest on her waist. He pulls her into his lap, enjoying how she feels there, soft and delicate in his arms. He kisses her like that for a long time—partly for her benefit. He doesn’t want to mess this up by going too fast. It’s partly for his own benefit too, though—he’s almost too nervous to do anything else. All his years as a rake have not prepared him for this.

He feels her grow hungrier, in the way she devours his mouth, can feel his own need grow, knows he needs more. Slowly, he removes an arm from around her waist, and begins to lift her nightgown until it’s bunched up around her thighs.

“Is this okay?” he asks breathlessly, pulling his mouth away from hers briefly. Daphne nods hurriedly, bringing her mouth back to his, as if she can’t bear to be parted from him for even a second.

He sneaks his hand between her thighs, groaning into her mouth when he meets her wet centre. Her thighs are slick with her arousal.

“Have you been thinking about me?” he asks her. “Are you wet for me? Your brother?”

Daphne whimpers, nodding against his mouth. He traces a finger along her slit, the first to ever touch her like this. He wants to savour it, because he knows it will never happen again. It can’t.

He finds her engorged clit, and she moans as he strokes her there.

“Shh,” he says, pressing his lips to her jaw. “You need to be quiet, my love.”

“Uh huh,” Daphne agrees. He kisses down to her neck, while his fingers find her opening. She squirms in his lap as he works a finger into her tight cunt. “Anthony,” she whines.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” she pants. “I need more, I need—”

He pushes another finger inside her, watches as she bites her lip to stop from moaning, her body arching towards him, her head dropping to his shoulder. She pulses around his thick fingers, hot and wet and needy.

He thumbs her clit as he pumps his fingers inside her, revelling in her tiny whimpers against his shoulder. _He_ made her sound like that. He never dreamed he would delight so much in his own sister’s ruination. Though he also never dreamed that he would be the cause of it.

“Anthony,” she moans, the same way she did when she fingered herself in front of him. The same way that has haunted him since that night. “Anthony, Anthony, Anthony,” she chants it like a prayer, and he answers by pressing his fingers into her just right, kissing her hair as she falls apart, not as quiet as she should be. She floods his hand with her orgasm, and he rocks her through it, kissing her, stroking her back with his free hand.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“More than okay,” Daphne breathes. “Are you going to—” she shifts in his lap, against his erection, her meaning plain.

He nods. “If you still wish me to.”

“I do.”

“Very well,” he says. He removes his hand from between her legs, then inches her nightgown higher, pulling it up to her waist, pausing to admire her swollen pussy, her thighs glistening in the candlelight. He thrills at the knowledge that he did that to her.

He lifts her nightgown higher, and she dutifully raises her arms above her head so he can remove it entirely, leaving her naked in his lap. His eyes rake over her, committing her lithe, delicate body to memory, lingering on her small, perfect breasts, unseen by any man before him. She shivers under his hungry gaze, but she does not seem embarrassed, and does nothing to try to protect her modesty. He supposes it is far too late for that now anyway.

He kisses her, soft and sweet, then dips his head to her breasts, kissing the smooth white flesh, knowing they will forever be marked with his kiss, long after the feeling has faded. She will think of this whenever her husband touches her. He will make sure of it.

He moves his mouth to a nipple, sucking it into his mouth sharply, making her gasp. She had not known how to touch her own breasts to make it feel good, but he can do it for her. And he intends to taint every part of her body, so she cannot help but think of him whenever she is naked.

Gently, he shifts their positions, his lips still on her breasts, cradling her as he lays her down on her back, finally letting the sheets drop, letting her see him in all his glory. She eyes him with wonder, and it occurs to him that he is the first naked man she has seen. His cock was the first she saw too, though at the time he didn’t register that as some kind of milestone.

Now, he feels a swell of pride. He holds onto that feeling—he knows when he looks back on this later, pride will be the last thing he feels.

“Are you sure you have no doubts?” he asks her.

Daphne shakes her head. “I trust you.”

“I think the very fact that we are in this position proves you should not.”

She laughs, and he can’t help but smile in return. She is happy, and truly, he is too, for the first time in a long time. Even if it’s just for this moment.

She eyes his cock, thick and long and hard. He can only hope he doesn’t pale too much in comparison to the duke.

“You’re going to—to put it inside me?” she asks.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Daphne,” he whispers, his lips ghosting her jaw. “Tell me you want my cock in your pussy.”

She blushes right down from her hairline to her toes. “I want your cock in my pussy,” she murmurs sweetly, and it’s downright filthy to hear it coming from his virgin sister’s mouth. “Although I’m still not sure how it’s supposed to fit,” she adds.

It’s Anthony’s turn to laugh now. “If you want it badly enough, it will fit. Do you want it badly enough?”

Daphne nods. “Yes.”

“Okay, my love,” Anthony says softly. “Are you ready? I’ll be gentle.”

“I’m ready.”

He kisses her, spreading her thighs with a hand, lining his cock up with her entrance. She squeaks as the head bumps against her. He keeps his hands and lips busy, trying to distract her, keep her relaxed as he crosses the threshold, his cock entering her virgin cunt.

She’s tight—tighter than he’s ever felt before. He’s never been with a virgin before—never stooped _that_ low, and always prided himself on that self-control. How far he has fallen.

He pauses as a strangled cry escapes her mouth. He presses his lips to hers.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “Just—I feel—stretched. In a good way.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

It’s excruciating, having to take it so slow, and yet it makes it all the sweeter when he finally reaches the hilt, his cock lodged in her pussy, his _sister’s_ pussy, her virginity gone with it. He stays still inside her, allowing her to adjust. He feels her walls flutter around him, making room for him.

Finally, she starts to wriggle, though she seems unaware she’s doing it, and he knows she’s ready for more.

“Is that it?” she asks him.

He shakes his head. “No.” He thrusts, slow but powerful, and she gasps.

“ _Oh_.”

He thrusts again, and again, slowly building up a rhythm, until he’s fucking her in earnest, keeping his mouth on hers to stifle her cries.

“Anthony,” she moans against his mouth. “Anthony, please. I need—”

“You need to come,” he grunts.

“Yes,” she pants. “I need to come.”

The dirty words slipping so casually from her pristine lips almost makes _him_ come. He reaches a hand between them, finding her clit before he can ruin this for her entirely by coming inside her, getting her pregnant, and not even making her come first.

Her climax is sudden, taking him by surprise, and she goes silent as it rolls over her, her body arching into his. He watches her in awe—she has never looked more beautiful that she does in the throes of pleasure.

He thankfully has the presence of mind to pull out of her, moments before he reaches his own orgasm, spurting his load on the sheets instead. Getting his sister pregnant would be horrifying—as if putting his cock inside her wasn’t bad enough.

Daphne doesn’t seem to notice, still in the bliss of the aftershocks of her orgasm. Anthony rolls towards her, watching the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing evens out, admiring her flushed face, the tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

“Is it always like that?” she breathes.

“Not always,” Anthony says. He traces the backs of his fingers down her figure, a bittersweet sorrow settling into his chest. He does not feel guilty, though perhaps he will in time. He is only sorry that he will never get to have her again. He must be content with the knowledge that he was her first.

He presses his lips to her shoulder. “You should get to bed,” he tells her, though he wants nothing more than for her to stay with him. “You have a big day ahead of you.”

Daphne looks to him, eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. It has burnt almost to the stub now, and soon it will be pitch black.

“I suppose I do,” she agrees.

He helps her don her nightgown, then walks her to the door. He cannot resist one last, lingering kiss.

“I wish—” Anthony starts, then stops himself. There is no point in fanciful, impossible wishes.

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“Please,” Daphne presses. “Let’s not keep secrets from one another.”

Anthony hesitates. “I wish you did not have to marry him. I cannot stand it. To know that you are his. That you can never truly be mine.”

Daphne gives a small smile. “I shall be his in name. But I will always belong to you at heart.” And with that promise, she slips out into the hallway, leaving him craving her no less than he did before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not what i promised, but it's coming.

Anthony is late to breakfast. He stays in bed longer than usual, perhaps unwilling to face his family after what he did last night. Spoiled his sister’s virtue. At her request, of course, but he’d still done it. It’s the worst thing he’s ever done—and yet he cannot begin to regret it, or even feel guilty about it. He can only mourn the fact that it will likely never happen again.

By the time he drags himself into the dining hall, Benedict is the only person left still eating, his other siblings and mother gone to ready for the wedding.

Benedict pops the last bite of his eggs into his mouth, while Anthony waves a servant away, perfectly capable of pouring his own tea. He’d prefer brandy, but he supposes he should probably not get drunk until _after_ he’s given his sister away. He’s not particularly hungry—knowing Daphne will soon be married, and later, have another man’s hands on her, seems to have ruined his appetite.

He does his best to ignore his brother, but Benedict is quite obviously smirking at him, for what reason Anthony cannot possibly fathom.

“If you have something to say, brother, please get it off your chest and save us both some time,” he sighs.

“You really are shameless, aren’t you?” Benedict says.

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“I heard you last night,” Benedict says.

Anthony’s stomach bottoms out. _I heard you last night_. He can only be referring to one thing. And yet the expression on his brother’s face is not disgusted, nor reproachful. It’s almost gleeful, and certainly knowing. Anthony deduces that Benedict cannot possibly know a thing.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You brought a woman into the house,” Benedict accuses. “Right under our mother’s nose. On the eve of our sister’s wedding.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You seduced a servant then. Even worse.”

Anthony scoffs. “I don’t know what you thought you heard—”

“ _Oh, Anthony, please, I need you,_ ” Benedict mocks. Anthony blanches. He feels as though he might throw up. He can only be thankful Benedict hadn’t recognised their sister’s voice. Because he hadn’t expected to, or because Daphne sounds so different when her voice is wrecked with desire, Anthony doesn’t know.

Anthony glares at his brother. “Don’t tell mother.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Benedict grins. “Who was it? That actress?”

Anthony shakes his head. “Nobody. A different actress.”

Benedict looks like he wants to continue the conversation, but Anthony gives him a hard glare. “Shouldn’t you be readying for the wedding?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t _you_?” Benedict returns pointedly.

Anthony gives a huff and pushes up from the breakfast table. “You’re absolutely right,” he says, though his tone gives the opposite impression. He stalks back towards his room, leaving Benedict laughing at him. He suspects his brother would not find it quite so funny if he knew the truth.

-

Two hours later, Anthony helps Daphne into the carriage, then takes his place across from her. She’s a vision, perfectly angelic in her white dress. He wants to rip it off her, put his mouth on her breasts, his hand between her legs.

“Do I look alright?” Daphne asks him, perhaps noticing his lingering gaze. He meets her eye.

“Beautiful,” he tells her honestly. “The duke is a lucky man indeed.”

“No need to look so forlorn, brother,” Daphne smiles, and he raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t realised his feelings were quite so plain to see. Or perhaps Daphne can just read him better than most.

“No?” he says, not bothering now to try to hide his bitterness. “In less than an hour you will be another man’s wife. By tonight you will be in his bed. Forgive me if I am not jumping for joy.”

“I never took you for a jealous man,” Daphne says.

“Neither did I,” Anthony replies. “I’m learning rather a lot about myself lately.”

“I meant what I said,” Daphne promises. “I’m yours. Simon is—Simon is wonderful. I do love him, and I think we will be happy together. But most importantly, he is what is acceptable to society.”

“You’re not making this easier,” Anthony grumbles.

Daphne ignores him. “But know that I think of you. Always.”

“Always?” Anthony repeats, his heart flip-flopping. “Daphne—how long have you—?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Longer than I even understood what I was feeling.”

Anthony nods. He feels the same. God, he loves her. Will always love her just a tiny bit more than he loves anyone else. And he thinks maybe she feels the same about him.

The carriage pulls to a halt outside the church. He feels that there is so much more to say, but now is not the time. He doesn’t know now if there ever will be a time, not when she’s leaving tonight, directly after the reception. And it’s not the sort of thing one can put in a letter. Hell, what if someone should read it?

And by the time she returns to London, or invites her family to visit in Clyvedon, it is probably best if they don’t speak of it again. It is something to keep in their hearts. An unspoken bond that no one could ever possibly understand. A shameful secret, that neither of them feel ashamed of.

Anthony smiles at his sister. If nothing else, at least they will always have last night. He was her first, and she will always know it, always remember it. He hopes with fondness and not regret.

“Shall we?” he says hoarsely. Daphne nods, and Anthony helps her from the carriage before taking her arm and leading her into the church.

The wedding is nothing exciting. Anthony escorts Daphne down the aisle, handing her over to another man. He even manages to smile as he does it. Strangely, he does feel happy. Or at least content. His jealousy is only mild as he watches the nuptials, though he does fantasise about telling Simon that his bride belonged to him first. He’s smug at the thought of it, and though he would never dream of actually doing it, it does make the ceremony bearable.

They return to Bridgerton House for the reception. The wedding itself may have been small, but now the house if full of guests, congratulating the happy couple, congratulating _him_ for making such an advantageous match for his sister. As if he had anything to do with it.

Daphne’s mood seems to deteriorate throughout the course of the celebration. Anthony notices, because he has not stopped being aware of her since god knows when. With every person that approaches her she seems to grow more unhappy.

In an attempt to get her to perk up, he tells her of the duke’s insistence that her dowry be put in trust for her. It is her wedding day after all, and she should not be seen to be moping. Even _he_ isn’t moping. Their talk this morning has brought him to acceptance, perhaps, if not outright delight at her matrimony.

When that doesn’t work, he reminds her of her future children. Something he would never be able to give her, though he doesn’t say that out loud.

Yet he seems to have put his foot in it again, because she turns pale, and runs from the ballroom, leaving him feeling bewildered and remorseful. With only a moment’s hesitation, he chases after her, following her upstairs, where he finds her in her room.

“Daph,” he says, closing the door behind him. He’s not completely certain no one saw him go after her. He knows he shouldn’t be in her room when there are people around to witness it, but he also cannot bear to see her unhappy, and especially for him to be the cause. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though he’s not certain what he’s apologising for.

“It’s not your fault,” she assures him.

“If I said something—”

“You didn’t. You only said what you thought I would wish to hear.”

He considers what he said to her, trying to work out which part of his sentiments had set her off, but he cannot make sense of it. She cannot be opposed to her dowry being put in trust for her, surely. And she has always made it plain she desires a big family with many children.

He sits down on the bed beside her. “Are you having doubts?” he asks her. “About whether the duke will make a fitting husband? Or father?”

Daphne shakes her head. “I’m sure he will be very kind,” she says. “And in any case, it is too late now for second guessing.”

“Daph,” Anthony pleads. “Talk to me. I thought we said no secrets.”

She looks at him. “Only, I am not certain it is my secret to tell,” she explains. “Not when he is your friend.”

“The jury is still out on that.”

“You would not be able to help anyway,” Daphne sighs. “It is not an issue to be fixed. It is only something I will have to learn to live with.”

Anthony nods, though he doesn’t understand. He will respect her privacy on this matter, since it so obviously brings her much pain.

“What can I do, then?” he asks. “To make you feel better?”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Daphne whispers. “Distract me.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading, and he suddenly realises how close they’re sitting. There’s a low pulse in his stomach as he considers what she’s asking him. If last night hadn’t happened, he could almost believe she was simply asking for a change in conversation topic.

As it is, he notes her lip caught between her teeth, the flush of her cheeks and chest. He has successfully avoided thinking of stripping her naked since the carriage ride, but now it’s all he can think of.

“Daph,” he groans, as she leans forward, slips her hand over his. Her lips ghost over his, not quite touching. “Anyone could walk in and see us,” he whispers futilely. “And you have to leave soon, we don’t have time.”

“Just a kiss,” Daphne promises, and Anthony, of course, is powerless to refuse. He closes the insignificant gap between their lips, his hand sliding to her waist. She melts into him, and he can’t resist deepening the kiss, probing his tongue into her mouth, making her open up for him.

Her hands slip around his neck, pulling him closer, and he shifts, his hand resting on her thigh as he pushes her down onto the bed so he’s half on top of her. Her hands slide down to his chest, fist in his coat lapels. His cock is straining against the front of his breeches, and he thinks about the wet, warm mouth he’s currently kissing wrapped around it instead.

But he cannot ask her to do that—she’s a duchess now. Duchesses do _not_ suck their brother’s cocks. He thinks he can, however, give _her_ some pleasure. Viscount’s probably shouldn’t lick their sister’s cunts either, but he’s done a lot of things a viscount shouldn’t do, so why should he stop now?

He tears his mouth away from hers, earning a whine of protest from Daphne. She is quickly placated when his lips find her neck instead, and she gives a gasp of pleasure.

Anthony lifts his head, breathing heavy, Daphne’s chest rising and falling in time with his own.

“I want to try something,” he says. “But you have to promise you’ll be quiet. We were heard last night.” Daphne’s eyes widen, and Anthony hurries to reassure her. “It was only Benedict, and he assumed I had taken another woman to bed. But we must be more careful. So you need to be quiet. Can you do that?”

Daphne nods furiously. Her hair will be ruined after this, but hopefully they can play it off as Daphne just have a short nap before her wedding night.

Anthony keeps his eyes locked with hers as he slides down between her legs, dragging her dress and chemise up, revealing her stockinged legs, and then her mound, that patch of reddish-blonde hair looking incredibly enticing.

He parts her thighs wider, then leans down to press a kiss on her inner thigh, just above her knee. He shouldn’t dally, probably. It can’t be long until the couple should be leaving. But he can’t help it. He wants to tease her, take his time with her.

He kisses his way up her thigh, pausing when he reaches the apex.

“What are you—” she starts, sounding vaguely concerned. Her question his cut short, her breath hitching as he lowers his mouth to her cunt and licks into her slit. “Oh,” she breathes, his tongue locating her clit. “Anthony,” she whines.

“You promised you’d be quiet,” he reminds her, lifting his head.

Daphne quickly nods, clamping her mouth shut, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Anthony resumes his motions. He bends her knee, placing her leg over his shoulder, running his tongue down her slit, pushing inside her. Her arousal coats his tongue and he laps her up, the taste of her divine.

She’s doing her best to remain to silent, but quiet whimpers escape her, hopefully not loud enough to be overheard by a passing servant or wandering guest. Her fingers tangle in his hair as he devours her further, urgently, like a starving man. Her whimpers become sobs of pleasure, so tortured by his ministrations she can no longer keep it together.

“Anthony,” she pants. “Please.”

He moves his tongue back to her clit, then sucks it into his mouth, causing a powerful orgasm to wrack her body, juices gushing onto his face. She writhes beneath him, gasping, her heel digging into his back, her hands so tight on his hair he fears she might tear it out. He doesn’t know how he’d explain that.

She collapses to the bed, flushed and breathless. Her hair is coming out of its immaculate updo. She looks entirely like a woman who has just been fucked extremely well. Bloody hell.

Anthony quickly extracts himself from her grasp, pulling her gown back down to cover her modesty, before standing, brushing his own clothing to straighten it. Daphne sits up, curls escaping from her updo all over the place. Anthony is not sure his own hair could look much better. His, at least is fixable. He hasn’t the faintest idea how to fix Daphne’s. It’s plain to anyone that she hasn’t simply been lying in her bed.

“God, Daph,” Anthony groans. “Your hair.”

It is at that moment that the door swings open, without so much as a knock. Anthony’s stomach plummets as he and Daphne whip their heads around to face the intruder.

“They are bringing the carriages around,” says Rose. Her smile drops suddenly as she looks between the two. God, Anthony is sure they must look guilty as all hell. He shouldn’t even be in Daphne’s room, let alone with the two of them looking like they do. He can still taste Daphne’s cunt on his tongue.

“Rose,” Daphne says, her voice strangled. She opens her mouth to say more, but words seem to fail her. Her face is a deep scarlet colour, her embarrassment at having been almost caught evident. Anthony takes it has his cue to take control.

“Rose,” he repeats.

“My lord,” Rose says. Her eyes are ablaze with questions and accusations. She is not so innocent not to know what has been going on here. Anthony can only hope she’ll keep quiet, for Daphne’s sake, if not for his.

“Would you kindly fix Daphne’s hair before she leaves?”

“Certainly, my lord,” she nods.

“I was never here, do you understand?” he says. His voice is controlled, even, giving the illusion of a calmness he does not feel. His heart is jumping around wildly in his chest, his stomach is in knots. If Rose should say a single word, both he and Daphne would be ruined.

Rose looks to Daphne for confirmation. That, he cannot fault her for. He can see the questions in her eyes. _Did he force himself on you? Are you alright? Is this what you want, too?_

Daphne nods, surely, emphatically enough for Rose to believe her. Rose turns back to Anthony.

“Yes, my lord. You should return to the ballroom before you’re missed.” Anthony nods, stepping towards the door. “My lord?” she calls after him. He looks back to her. She rubs over her mouth and chin pointedly, and Anthony copies the action, flushing when he feels the wetness left behind by his sister’s pussy.

He nods at Rose again. “Thank you,” he says, before swiftly exiting the room. He will have to make sure Rose gets a large sum of money to show the depth of his gratitude.

He returns to the ballroom, slipping in unnoticed. He joins his family in saying goodbye to the guests as they leave, glancing constantly towards the staircase, waiting for Daphne’s arrival. The sick feeling remains in his stomach, and he dare not even look at Simon for fear of his eyes betraying his guilt.

His shoulders slump in relief when Daphne appears minutes later, completely changed from her wedding attire, her hair looking perfect once more.

“There you are,” their mother says. “Where have you been?”

“I felt a little weary so I took a short nap,” she smiles, risking a glance at Anthony. He quickly looks away. “Where is my husband?”

“Outside with the carriages,” Violet says. “Are you ready?”

Daphne nods, taking a deep breath as she gives a convincing smile. She takes the hands of her youngest siblings, and everyone follows her outside. Anthony can barely stand to see her go.

“I’m going to miss all of you. Terribly,” Daphne says, as she hugs her brothers goodbye.

“Even me?” Anthony asks, and Daphne gives him a wry smile, a private joke passing between them.

“Even you,” she agrees. But what he hears is _especially you_. She steps forward, and he risks pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth, stepping back before he can forget himself and do something stupid.

And then he watches as Simon helps her up into the carriage and he tries to push down the jealousy, the guilt, the anxiety, putting on a brave face instead. But as the carriage rolls away, Anthony feels his heart tug out of his chest and go with her.

-

Daphne is sure this is not how she should feel on one’s own wedding night. She felt it as soon as she stepped into the carriage—a wave of anxiety, settling into the pit of her stomach. Anthony had managed to distract her from her worries for a moment, but that bliss is long gone now. In fact, thinking of it only makes the knots in her stomach grow tighter.

Nobody was ever supposed to find out—that was what made it okay. That it was their secret, that they could keep it that way, because who would ever suspect. But they had been careless—her fault, really. Though she knows Anthony would sooner take the blame for her.

Daphne knows Rose won’t tell. She had assured her she wouldn’t tell, as soon as Daphne had assured her there was no impropriety on Anthony’s behalf. Well, aside from the obvious. But it was nothing she didn’t want, nothing she hadn’t asked for. It was humiliating to admit it to her lady’s maid—see the judgement in her eyes. Rose had never judged her for anything before. Probably wouldn’t have judged if it had been anyone else in that room with her, anyone but her brother.

So even though she’s sure of Rose’s silence, her obvious disapproval stings.

Then there’s the matter of the wedding night—which grows rapidly nearer as the carriage draws towards the inn she’s just been informed they will be staying in tonight.

She’s nervous. She has been nervous about it since even before she was engaged—hence the reason she ended up in Anthony’s study that night, begging him to tell her what it was all about. She hadn’t known, then, what she was really asking. What she really wanted.

But then he flashed through her mind, Simon’s face transforming into her brother’s, as she touched herself between her legs, surging towards something she didn’t quite understand.

Thankfully, he cleared all that up rather well. Too well, really. But she cannot bring herself to regret it, not even after she saw the look on Rose’s face. Not when he was so sweet, so tender with her. Not when he made her feel like _that_. Not when she finally feels truly prepared for what’s to come.

So it is not her naivety now that causes her nerves. What she’s worried about is that Simon will be able to tell that it isn’t her first time. That somebody else had her before him—she can’t imagine he would be happy about that. He would never guess _who,_ of course. He may believe her to be impure, but he’d never imagine her to be _that_ depraved. She can hardly believe it herself.

But it turns out she needn’t have worried—Simon clearly misinterprets her nerves over being found out as nerves over her losing her virtue. She’s still inexperienced enough to seem virginal, and he’s none the wiser, treating her with a similar tenderness and patience to what Anthony had.

She can’t help but compare him to Anthony—he’s not _worse,_ but she’s not sure it’s better either. It’s similar, but different enough to make her think of her brother, his face blazing into her mind as Simon plunges into her.

In the days that follow, he gets considerably _less_ gentle. It’s fantastic. What Anthony had showed her was just the tip of the iceberg, and she’s lost in a haze of pleasure for days, learns how to initiate her encounters with Simon, how to touch him, how to make him want her. She even makes peace with the fact that she will never have children. She will surely be an aunt at some point, and truly life with Simon, as his duchess, is magical as it is.

Rose seems relieved at Daphne’s happiness with the duke too. She doesn’t say as much, but Daphne can tell her maid had been on edge after becoming privy to Anthony and Daphne’s less than sibling-like behaviour. Now, she seems more relaxed, has begun smiling at Daphne again like the whole thing has been forgotten.

It’s wonderful, and perfect, and much more than she ever could have dreamed of when she made her debut.

And yet. Even in her delirious, honeymoon addled state, there is a constant niggling inside her that something is not quite right. And sometimes, when Simon touches her, she feels the ghost of Anthony’s lips, his fingertips, his cock, reminding her that her had her first. That no matter how she may play at Duke and Duchess with Simon, however hard she tries to be the flawless, loving wife—she will always truly belong to Anthony.

She feels guilty the first time she puts her mouth around her husband’s cock. It should be Anthony who teaches her this. He wouldn’t like her doing it with someone else first. But she wants to try, and Anthony isn’t here, and Simon is. And gets a thrill thinking about how next time she sees him, she can show her brother all she’s learned.

The honeymoon comes to an abrupt halt. It’s something Mrs Colson says, that puts doubt in her mind— _seed_. That one little word eats at her, until she’s forced to go to Rose for answers. She’d prefer to ask Anthony—why hadn’t she asked Anthony? She asked him about the wedding night, but she never asked him to tell her how a child actually comes to be.

But it’s too urgent for a letter. She needs to know _now_.

So she goes to Rose, who tells her everything she needs to know about the truth of Simon’s supposed condition that prevents him from having children. A lie. It’s all been a lie. And Daphne could not be more furious.

She confronts him. After days of stewing on it, she asks him outright. He cannot deny it. She says things, hurtful things she doesn’t mean, and some she does mean, and he returns in kind.

It is awful, horrible, the worst kind of betrayal and heartbreak. She has committed herself to a man who refuses to ever give her children. Not _cannot_ give her children, but _will_ not, and that makes all the world of difference.

Her wedded bliss is turned to misery, and all she can think is _Anthony would never do this to me. Anthony, Anthony, Anthony._

It is with almost giddy relief she feels when she receives word from her family about Colin’s unfortunate entanglement with a Miss Marina Thompson, though of course she feels for her brother’s plight.

But under the surface, she is thankful for the excuse. For now, she has every reason to return to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw you can find me on twitter @emilyjadeds and tumblr @arysafics

**Author's Note:**

> ok listen i have Thoughts about how to continue this fic so if that would be something you're interested in.... please let me know


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